Poetry is the language of imaginationPoetry is a form of positive creationDifficult, isn't it the point? Ya missin itRockin's kinda new to me cause my true love is poetryI don't know what you thought hops but chief I've got tall props seeThis be thee rebuttal versionTo mister academic who does not believe that my poems wouldcould should have muscles and bodies like this oneI want my poem to be brazen and long leggedand squash mud under a hard yellow heals wicked gravityI wish to leave this lab of brains swishing in jarsand write poems that shatter glass with undeniable bodiesI want to be a word that wants to be a sweating brickso drink that through your pointed teeth and critique itI want to be the strophe that strokes the ear in salty heavesa spine that bends and works like the dance you shut the door to beListen to me, with your hipsClutch this line in the fleshy grip of bold thighsEat through your ears and drink through your poresand if you see me splashed across a pageKnow that a leaf is a tongue that you wear to make loveto a voice not your own, eat this poemFloss with the barbed length of a simileand scrape your tongue across the living versesbristling skin my I is just my I I promiseI believe in closure but not in hospital cornersthe way first principles are real but untraceable seeGod is meaning, means becoming, means I knock before I come inMeans I wriggle through the riddle of the flesh to out sweat itMeans I wear my impertinence upon my fluttering lipMy refusal to bow out to some abstract curtainand exist backstage by the sandbags and pulleysHell fucking no! I exist to be seento see and be seen, to push my I to the thouBecause the premise of my rhythm is the un-apologeticemphatic insistence of the declarative sentenceThat's right bad boy, I am I is I be, fuck you.I can speak about myself and rhyme in couplets if I want toI am I is I be I do I self I delf I solo I dolo is is is is I I IAm my mother's talk stories from beginning to end.Listen to this poem with your hips..Yes it's Denizen an exhalation of breathand these Typicaaal Cats will make the session start freshYes it's I grip tight the lemon scented mic devicethese Typicaaal Cats will make the session start rightSee I was born with two tongues but no green cardmy skin marked by the immigration narratives of my people drifting a-partOf the two worlds I reside in the high yellow phantasm, of an undiscovered future I am to breach the chasm between my mother's memory and my hazy prison I so knewLanguages off the scraps of my hand-me-down clothesI grip with ten toes the type or types are putting fact in funkdeliver colder than statistics, bubble hot like a Cali trunkI dwell in the fertile valley between ghosts and historysubvert the dogma lefty-loosy righty-tighty every time I speakConjunction junction what's ya function my assumptionthat the fearful face of my future would fall and then my punching is in questionGhosts grip my chest and I can't breathepanic brings my chinky eyes wide and then I can't readRoll and I tumble and I cry the whole night longroll and I tumble and I cry the whole night longBut my creator calls the human out the thinnest of the vaporsI tease the story out the blankness of the paperI can weave a family out the scarlet of a sinand write the world in which my seed will be at ease inside his own skinSee Miss Liberty stagger with evictions falling outI tap with two tongues against the inside of my mouthHad a date with assimilation, but I stood her ass upand made love to the multi-color features brimming in my cupBecause the end comes quick, ego says quitI say work is love let my body be a brickBecause the end comes quick and ego says quitI say work is love let my body be a brickYes it's Denizen an exhalation of breathand these Typicaaal Cats we make the session start freshYes it's I grip tight the lemon scented mic deviceTypicaaal Cats will make the session start right (see uh uh)